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Great. Thanks, Theo. Now we have to talk to Bud Selig.
OOPS! Sorry! Wrong photo.
Here we go:
Thanks to THEO, we’re going to the principal’s office. Where, undoubtedly, we’ll all lose our ability to hold back laughter. Awkward, awkward laughter.
See. I know what you’re doing, Theo. You’re making all these jackass moves and throwing them in our faces so that we’ll hate you. You’ve been doing it allllllll offseason. So that we’ll cry, “Theo? Theo Epstein? Bah. Curse that Theo Epstein. We don’t need him or his big, big moves!” And then Bud Selig (who hears everything. Except needle injections) will say, “hark! You don’t need him? Then here is your $5. Epstein buy-out problem solved!”
You know what, Theo? It is not going to work. You are worth so so so so so much. INVALUABLE. Hear me, Selig? It’s like, you take alllllll the elephants in the world (they’re endangered, you know. And expensive) and add in Yu Darvish’s salary. And multiply it by how old Tim Wakefield is (he’s a hundred, apparently. I read it in a Yankees blog). And then you add in all the copper (it’s valuable. I saw it on the news) from allllll the street lights on U.S. 1 and then you add in a pot o’gold for every Papeljig in the history of Papeldom (curse you, Philadelphia! curse you all! um. Unless you’re a fan in Delaware. Then great tidings to you. Great indeed). And then you add your five dollars. And THAT is how much the Red Sox will accept for Theo Epstein.
NO LESS.
Or. Um. Garza. Castro AND Jackson.
Don’t like it? SEND HIM BACK.
Oops! Did it again! Awkward…
Here you go- Sorry about that.
—-
In other news, I landed in Philadelphia this morning and have been playing in Delaware all day. I love it here. There is Thai food and I feel appreciated. Oh. But the speed limits are ridiculously low. Which bothered me, until I realized no one has to follow them. And people really, really like stocking hats. And I don’t think you can talk on a cell phone and drive. Which is silly. Because I’m very popular and people call me a lot.
There is a place here called Tasti Thai. It is a restaurant. Not a… um. It’s a restaurant.
But there’s no Which Wich Sandwich Shop. Nowhere is perfect, I guess.
Could you call the state of Delaware and tell them to hire me? Thanks.
And Jonathan Papelbon didn’t even have the decency to meet me at the airport. After ALLLLLLLL the cheering I have done for him. I guess it really is over, guys.
~L
Nick Cafardo and I agree on something. Oh, and this could be as good as it gets, folks.
Nick Cafardo and I agree on one thing today. And that is Tim Wakefield.
Who- as I’ve said before- we shouldn’t just write off- despite the imaginary walker.
Not sure it’s safe to assume that his tenure with Boston is over. Even if they don’t sign him right now, what prevents them from bringing him back in May or June or even after the All-Star break if they need a starter? He could always be one of those half-season veteran pitchers.
That’s what I see for Tim. Tim’s a utility guy and a hero. He’s not the guy you parade around the mound for a milestone. He can still serve a purpose.
And every time we write him out- he comes back as a weapon.
Well, you know. Except for that one time. Okay, that several times over the summer.
But that wasn’t his fault, see. It was the number.
Numbers are scary beasts.
—
So. Here’s the deal, folks. Benny C is playing it… safe? Is that even the word for this? He’s certainly playing it oppositeville. Maybe he was hanging out with Michael Hill… they were playing chess, see, when all of a sudden… the board, it got struck by lightning, right? And their hair frizzed up. Oh! And then, something magical happened like that one time on Gilligan’s Island. They switched brains!!!!!
Or, maybe Benny C doesn’t know we have money.
Maybe he doesn’t read all the disparaging comments people make about how we’re moneybaggers and buy our championships and have a bazillion dollars.
Or maybe he’s busy arguing salaries with our six unsigned arbitration-eligible players: RHP Alfredo Aceves, INF Mike Aviles, RHP Andrew Bailey, RHP Daniel Bard, OF Jacoby Ellsbury and DH David Ortiz.
Or maybe he’s still playing with the rolly chair in what used to be Theo Epstein’s office.
Are we REALLY too broke for Roy Oswalt?
I do not understand how moving around payroll works. I understand that it’s how we lost Alex Rodriguez (blessing in disguise). I understand that the internet understands it better than I do-
Can we unLackey ourselves or something? I mean, it’s not like he can play…
I am so confuzzled by our pseudo-poverty.
So, in other words- this could be as good as it gets- at least for now.
Provided we have Aceves in our rotation- how do we stack up- right now- as of Jan. 17? Because I’m not feeling the rotation strength. The real people we’ll be counting on- Lester, Beckett, Buccholz- they couldn’t pull us out of a Soxplosion. And now they’re starring in our comeback tour? I’m not feeling the pep today, folks.
—-
In other news- it always hurts when someone moves on. You know the relationship is over. You say you’re fine. But it’s like that Gavin DeGraw song-
I think it’s pretty obvious who I’m talking about…
~L
The best way to get over Paps is to get under Papi.
A bitter person wouldn’t have sat through regurgitated presser clips last night at the bar. No. A bitter person would have done a lot more muttering than I did after work last night. She probably would have thrown a salt shaker.
I’m not bitter. To be bitter, you have to care. A pitcher of Yuengling said I didn’t give a frick.
Nope.
No, I don’t. I don’t care enough about you to throw salt, Jonathan Papelbon, or look up from my pitcher when your deer-eyed shapeless face is on the television screen.
There are big problems in this world. BIG problems. Like my friend Meg, for example. Thanks to Viking incompetence, she LOST her fantasy football game yesterday. Now that’s a problem.
Johnny Paps? I don’t even remember who you are anymore, Papel-prick.
Papel-who?
Papel-who?
Oh. Right. That guy.
So, Ben Cherington, aka: Keebler, we turn our bitter eyes to you. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. And who better to get under than David Ortiz?
Yes, you’ve expressed interest…
But that’s not enough, Cherryo. It’s time to make a deal. The people, YOUR people, need good news. We need some good fricking news. It’s time to get over your anti-all-free-agents-lauren-likes attitude and get behind the beast. The Ortiz beast.
You make me nervous, Benny. NERVOUS.
Toronto is out there. TORONTO. Tampa expressed this week its need for a DH. TAMPA. And never, ever, count on the Stankees’ spite, despite what Brian Cashman says…
It’s time to stroke the ego of a man who gave the nation hope when we didn’t deserve it.
Yeah. So he had a bit of a ‘tude this year. Yeah, so he stepped on some Tito-toes.
But Tito (sniff!) isn’t here anymore. Theo? He isn’t here any more. We are all we’ve got. And we need our mascot. We need him now more than ever.
Remember the slump year? The really bad one?
I do. I was living in Charlotte. And my new friend Eric (who I met at a dog park because he was wearing a Red Sox hat) called, and was like, let’s go watch a game.
And we met at Midtown Sundries on W.T. Harris Blvd (location is important) and David Ortiz hadn’t hit anything in like sixteen baseball decades. And the bar was full of people who are like, “he’s out. He’s old. Move on.” Damn Yankee hats.
And Eric and I were really quiet. And Ortiz stepped up to the plate. He stepped up and he did that palm clap that he does (you know the one) and that eyebrow scowl. And I said, “Eric, I swear to God, if he hits something, I will name my first born child after that man.”
And that’s how my puppy earned the name Elliot-May-Precious-Ortiz.
Because he knocked it out of the freaking park. He earned me seven dollars, a beer and a puppy name that night. And my life had been so ridiculous. Terrible job (in television. It was truly terrible. 4 a.m. shifts. Weekends. Try to have a social life in a new city with that schedule). Terrible boyfriend situation (NASTY, nasty break-up. Like, take what you’re thinking and add in this skanky girl from Baltimore). All alone in a city, really. Seriously, baseball. Pathetically, you were all I had. And in that moment, David Ortiz, I wasn’t some pathetic girl alone in Charlotte, North Carolina. I was part of a screaming, cheering, excited nation. I wasn’t the girl with the insane schedule who slept through dates. I was just a girl at a bar watching a great moment in a baseball game.
That’s how I made friends in Charlotte, see. We found each other, Red Sox hat by Red Sox hat. We found each other because of you, David Ortiz.
Yeah, World Series.
Yeah, ALCS.
But David Ortiz, what I remember you the most for is that time everyone (announcers included) 100 percent counted you out, and you came busting through the wall of doubt with a firecracker of a home run, and how I felt that day.
That’s what you mean to me. And that’s why I will be absolutely, freaking, pathetically inconsolable if they do not re-sign you.
Some players are more than players. And you’re one of them. And I’d like you to retire in that damn jersey.
Thanks.
It’s scary, really, the personal connections we have to a sport about a stick and a ball…
But the internet tells me I’m not alone in this. There are other crazy people with crazy infatuations. Don’t believe me? You’re the one reading this rant.
So Ben Cherington, PLEASE. For me. Re-sign David Ortiz. And do it now.
Because he’s more than a DH. He’s our mascot.
What’s your Papi moment? Everyone has one.
~L
PS- WHY haven’t you twittered me yet? Is it me?
Benny? Cherry? BC? Oh. And Ortiz watch, 2011. Happy Monday!
Ben Cherington needs a nickname. Seriously. I can’t keep typing Ben Cherington. What about Cherry? Or BC? You know. Like the fix-it powder? Except (Lackey excluded), he’s really not fixing anything, is he?
It’s the first Monday without a Papelbon and I’m still Papel-grieving because he’s Papel-gone. And everyone on the internet has something to Papel-say about it. It’s at a point in my Papel-brain that I kind of want to stop hearing analytics. I don’t want anyone else to Papel-tell me that we’re Papel-screwed. I don’t want anyone else to Papel-tell me we’ll be Papel-okay. I kind of want you to just Papel-listen while I Papel-stand here in front of my Papel-mirror, Papel-sobbing and Papel-singing “Unbreak My Heart.”
Can you just Papel-do that for me?
Thanks.
What will you miss the most? Surviving Grady articulated my thoughts perfectly.
And Dale Sveum is going in for another interview. Whatever. Because THIS is the greatest idea I have ever heard:
Let’s do it.
I really should have your job, Ben Cherington (see how cumbersome that is without a nickname, Jup?). We’d have Paps (because he’d love us again). And a Tek-manager. And… and…
So. In other news, ORTIZ WATCH 2011.
This is that part where Ben Cherington (eh) teases us about Ortiz before finally signing him. Then he’s going to send me a personal apology post-it for stressing me out. Right? Right?
Soxies, what do you think about Ortiz?
So much to do and so little time.
Have you Twittered me yet?
Why not?
Am I not Tweetable enough for you?
~L
Maybe Brian Cashman isn’t (entirely) evil and other stories to spin your Sunday.
So. Brian Cashman of Stankees infamy does have a redeeming quality: His taste in players. When asked to identify his favorite player to watch from another club, he only said what everyone was thinking.
He IS pretty special, isn’t he?
And, before you totally blink out of oppositeville, guess who Sox scout Galen Car said: DEREK JETER.
—-
PITCHING NEWS
In good news, Captain Obvious’s messages are finally hitting home, as Alfredo Aceves is being conditioned to start in the Sox rotation.
The “I-told-you-so” chorus would be louder, but it is currently Papelgrieving, so…
There are also rumors that Bard’s being looked at for rotation. But that’s a bad idea. Why?
Were you watching baseball this summer? Do we really have to relive the pain? He’s a short-term pitcher with not a lot of inning depth- and his eyes bug out in pressure games. Let’s work him in the bullpen until he’s unJenksed, k?
And rumors are circulating about Matt Cain.
—
The MANAGER Search
And Torey Lovullo (ex Paw-Sox manager) and Gene Lamont (Tigers) are adding their names to the dating pool for the management gig. And I have a TooSoxy endorsement that may not be the most popular.
TOREY LOVULLO.
Yes, I know he’s a Jay- but just hear me out. Not only has he ALREADY had to deal with Sox drama (Paw Sox, yep, Paw Sox) AND is familiar with the players- he’s currently the righthand of John Farrell. Something HAS to have rubbed off. Darkhorse? Yes. Popular? No. Sveum? No. My choice? YES.
To be fair, Lamont and Sveum have also worked with the Sox- but in a bigger capacity- so they could already be tainted by Front Office whimsy. It all makes sense in my head, see.
Besides, the killer is always the person you least suspect. And NO ONE suspects Lovullo.
And, since I know how much my opinion means to you, America- start reaquainting yourself to Clam Chowder, New England style, Lovullo. And the rest of you, start learning to spell his name. THREE Ls, people. Come on.
—-
Our FAs
So. Paps is out. But that doesn’t mean we have to lose the rest of our hopes and dreams. There’s Jason Varitek, and FireBrand says it’s time to let go:
TooSoxy has a different opinion.
We’ll never let go, will we, Soxies? (Yes. I went there)
So he’s no spring chicken (Is it too soon for chicken jokes?). Tek needs to retire in a Sox uniform. He’s more than a glove. He’s a leader. I say slide him into Curt Young’s vacancy. He’s more than the catcher. He’s the captain. And after what we’ve been through, we need stability, continuity and JASON VARITEK.
David Ortiz. If Tek is the soul of the Sox, Ortiz is its heart. And he’s not going ANYWHERE. Right, Ben Cherington? Right?
Is anyone else NOT comforted by that?
—–
Letting go
Theo Epstein is really gone. Really, really. And, even though HE CAN’T SEEM TO SHUT UP AND LET GO… we have to.
“How do you describe a death spiral?” he said. “We knew we had issues going into September (even though) we were on pace for 100 wins. We just couldn’t stop bleeding. A lot of things happened at the same time. We lost a few key guys to injury, a few guys had a significant downturn in their performance, and all of a sudden we looked up and we didn’t have enough pitching.”
SHUT UP!
“There weren’t players getting drunk during games. And it wasn’t widespread — it might have been one, two, three guys,” Epstein said.
Stop talking! You are making it worse!
I think this is alllllll part of the plan to steal our manager candidates.
—-
Bizarre News
And, in bizarrely horrific news, remember the Washington Nationals catcher kidnapped in Venezuela? (This really happened) He’s been rescued.
What is the world coming to?
So much news. Anyone else’s eyes rolling around in their heads?
—-
TooSoxy has Twitter
And, in the most exciting news news of the weekend, we officially have a Twitter page. Tweet me. Tweet me like you’ve never Tweeted before.
—-
So, thoughts people! Manager search! Ortiz! Tek! Who should stay? Who should go? Who should be kidnapped next in Venezuela (too soon, Lauren. Too soon)? Onward to the caffiene.
~L
Papelbon is Papelgone.
This means no more Papface.
No more Papjig.
No more PAPELBON.
He’s leaving us, see, for the SANDWICHES.
Seriously, Paps. I bet you could have found a sandwich in the dugout underneath all the KFC bags.
WHO WILL REMAIN AND WHAT WILL BE LEFT OF US?
Sigh.
I am never, ever, ever leaving town again.
~L
NO MORE PAPELPUNS. OHNO.
I am most upset about this. I need some time to process my emotions. And… the candy at the office today is… CIRCUS PEANUTS??? What the frick?
PS- You know what hurts worse than watching your ex move on?
When your ex moves on with your best friend.
This is a TERRIBLE day in sports.
200 or BUST.
4:23. At work. Explaining to someone the tradition that is Tim Wakefield.
So, betting time. I’ve got all my imaginary money on a win. That’s approximately 127,450 imaginary dollars. Imaginary dollars that I was saving for my imaginary boat and my imaginary high-interest mutual fund. It’s all I have left after purchasing my imaginary island last week with my imaginary savings. If I lose it, I’ll be marooned.
What do you think, Soxies? Is today the day that Father Time… um… Father Tim will deliver double hundreds?
See you in a few hours!
—-
6:15. Getting off work. Step closer to being able to watch entirety of actual game…
—-
HILARIOUS story about Alex Rodriguez on Deadspin (thanks, Jeb!).
Check it out while you tailgate.
—-
7:15. Okay. Carlos Carrasco. There’s something funky about the video on MLB.tv today… anyone else experiencing this? Checkerboards? No? Just me.
Jacoby chops to first. First out.
I wish they would stop spitting in public. It’s embarassing.
This is frustrating already. two outs. Sorry, Pedroia. I thought it was a homer too.
Gonz has an extremely dramatic single. Jacoby would have made that a triple. But whatever. The crowd goes silent as Youkie steps up to the plate. Okay. I may have assisted with the mute button on my computer…
Okay. They’re picking on Youkilis. The announcers say they’re picking on Youkilis. STOP PICKING ON YOUKILIS.
Thank you. With that complete and utter fail, Cleveland, you stopped. And helped my husband have one hell of a double. Okay, sound. You can come back again.
Papi at the plate. This MLB feed is really going to annoy me. I can tell. Base hit! Youkie! Gonz! 2-0 lead. 2-0. I like how this is going. Yes. Go team 200. That’s what I will call you all today. Team 200. Do it for Wake. Do it.
Carl Crawford, buddy, pal, friend, let’s widen the cushion, shall we? Let’s spread out that cushion like a picnic blanket. Like throat coating cough syrup. Like… like a home run.
Out. Okay. Um. First inning. Two runs. Okay.
—
Top of the second. 7:29. Travis Hafner. at the plate. Strike two.
Youkie in the shortstop spot (????) throws him out.
K.
Carlos Santana who has shifted from catcher to first base? What a weird game.
Okay, announcers. I don’t want to know how well the batters hit against Timmy. This is not helpful information for my pro-200 mindset. You will go on mute again. Mute, I say.
Steeeerike. First K of the night.
Knucklin’. Knucklin’ your way to 200. Knuckleballs look so silly. I wonder how they look coming at your face. Judging from the confuzzled expression on Konerko’s face, not pleasant.
Throws it in the dirt again.
Um. Let’s not do that.
Tim turned 45 yesterday? Why didn’t I know that? I would have thrown a party.
A-Gonz shoves in the out.
Sweetness.
—
7:35. I am so tired, guys.
Bottom of the second.
Not. A. Good. Sign for my awakeness…
Cleveland, I’m sorry your pitcher lost his last five starts. Really. And I’m sorry that tomorrow it will be six. Heidi Watney, I really don’t care about this. Thanks.
Reddick. Base hit. At the wall. Dramatic single. One out. But Joshy on first.
That ball almost hit Baltimore… wayyyyyy on the bottom of the wall list.
Marco Scutaro kind of looks like this guy I went out with this this one time. Not sure why I’ve never noticed that… my, what an awkward memory.
Good swing by Marco Scutaro? Um, Remy, a good swing is going to be when it’s out of the park and we’re two runs scarier.
Full count for Scut. See, I’m not worried- because Jacoby’s up next.
Fly to center… catch. Out.
Whatever, let’s see you, Jacoby.
Ball one. Okay. We can walk there. That’s fine. My computer keeps freezing on ridiculous expressions in the audience. Like this guy in a pink plaid shirt with his mouth open. He is clearly a Cleveland fan.
No offense, Bheise. You would NEVER wear that shirt.
In the air to right. Makes the catch. Ends the second. Okay. That’s fine.
—–
0-2. Top of the third. Tim Wakefield is about to be a badass. You’ll see.
Any minute now.
Pop out. Jacoby’s all over it.
Any minute now.
He just smirked. Was that a badass smirk?
Yes. Yes it was. Second strike out for Tim Wakefield.
That’s KK, for those of you paying attention at home.
Two outs.
Ground ball. Easy out.
And then Scutaro kicks it.
Scutaro kicks it?
Scutaro kicks it.
SCUTARO!
Bunt. Out at first.
Okay. Scut… you better go shake Gonz’ hand.
—-
Up the middle, base hit for Pedroia… our 5th hit of the night, by the by… on a new 5 game hit streak… Okay.
25 game streak broken by the White Sox. That one hurt.
Gonz tries the bunt. Not so much with the success.
Pedroia tagged out. Pedroia!
“That’s a helpless feeling for a baserunner, when you take off too soon,” announcer said.
Caught stealing. Bah.
Gonz grounds into the shift. Obvious out- but he runs for THAT one, notice.
Shut up, Heidi! Youkilis is batting.
Ball and a strike. I just love the Youk chant. It’s like a moan, really. Ball and two strikes. Two outs. Come on, baby. I believe in you. Want me to clap? I’ll clap. I can do that. Hell, it worked in Peter Pan.
Damn.
Clearly, you are not Peter Pan. End of inning.
—-
39 pitches for you, Timmy. 40th… a strike. And a fast ball.
Home run.
DAMN.
Okay, Timmy.
Okay. Breathe. 200. 200. Just repeat that. You know. 200 times.
Hopefully this won’t take 200 tries.
Zeeeeerooooo outs.
Chop.
Ball bounces. Ridiculously.
Clearly witchcraft. 2-2. Tie game.
Yeah, Salty. I think you SHOULD talk to Tim Wakefield. Maybe you should talk to him longer. NO outs. 2-2. 8:05 p.m.
Wild crazy pitch puts the guy to third.
Okay. Wakey. Okay. Let’s just calm down.
This inning is gross. Let’s start over. Or. Um. End it. Or something. Wake?
52 pitches. Tonight a year ago collision at the plate with Santana? Yeah. Let’s not repeat that. I’d rather Wake just strike you the frick out.
Like he just did. Making it KKK.
55 pitches. Okay. Let’s give that lonely out some friends. Two, to be specific.
Pedroia catches.
2 outs.
ONE MORE.
Thank you. Sit down.
—
Papi walks.
And, in the announcer booth, we’re talking about Tito bobbleheads. I really, really want one. Is that wrong? Will you buy me one?
“Where’s his finger so I can dislocate it again?”
That’s a bit much, announcer. A bit much.
A bobblehead night?
Doesn’t make the catch- Ortiz stopped at third, double for Crawford. Lovely. Kismet.
Second. Third. ZERO outs. ZERO.
BASES LOADED! BASES LOADED!
One out.
But BASES LOADED!
And…
Crap.
Marco Scutaro.
Crap.
Strike 2.
Crap.
Come on, Marco.
Come on, Marco. Stephen King is watching.
3-2 lead.
Okay. Okay.
I mean, it’s not a grand slam… but… at least we avoided a double play.
2 outs. Carl at third. Marco at first. Jacoby at the plate. Scut steals.
And crap.
—
Anddddd we start the bottom of the 6th with an out.
And about fifteen yawns from me.
And two outs. Blast.
That was a dramatic fail… and we’re on first.
Of course, it may be moot, because Marco’s up.
Out. That was fast.
—
Top of the 5h. 8:30 p.m., but it feels like midnight. Wake… can you do this quickly? Thanks.
Thanks. 1 out.
Crap. And one on first.
2 outs. Okay. Okay. Guy on second. Whatever, guy on second. Wake promised this would be fast.
First and second. Okay. And Asdrubal is up to the plate.
Wakeeeee…
3 outs. Thanks be to Fisk. I’m so sleepy, guys. So sleepy…
——
Gonz and Pedroia are trying to wake me up. It’s sweet. Thanks, guys. But it’s not working. Youk is going to load up the bases. He will.
Crap.
Youk.
Crap.
2 outs.
Papi. Papi.
And the fifth crashes. Like I am about to…
—–
Hi, Timmy.
Tim Wakefield. Please?
Oh no. Alfredo Aceves is warming up.
Oh no. Wakey, you can do it. I believe in you…
200. 200. 200. 200. 200.
—-
Tim. 200. Tim.
He is stressing me out. Are you watching this? Is anyone watching this?
Tito looks stressed out. And Salty, I hope that’s stress, because you are causing some plate scariness with your not catching.
Okay, One on first. One on second. two outs.
Oh. AND IT IS TIED AT THREE-THREE now.
Tim is gone. And I have this sinking sleepy feeling that this is only the beginning of our journey to 200.
Top of the 7th. I am too tired to yell at you, Randy Williams.
—
It looked fair to me too, Jacoby. It is 9:20.
—–
3-3. top. 8.
Bottom.
Nothing changes.
This game will clearly last forever.
Youkie. Fix it.
Ball four. Leadoff WALK.
Okay.
Tony Sipp. Whatever.
Mike Avilles pinching. This is the first time I’ll really see you in action, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Papi. Oh, Papi. Swing and a miss. ‘Course.
Zero outs, Aviles on first.
Aviles steals second. This Aviles, he’s alright.
Pop out. Papi.
Carl. Can I call you Carl?
Seriously. Ties cause me to lose sleep. Fix this, Carl. Be a buddy.
Out on strikes.
Okay. Um. Aviles is still in scoring position. One out left. So. Um. Salty?
Oh no. Justin Masterson tomorrow. Oh no. I am so conflicted. I loved him so.
Right. Back to the actual game.
13-1 Yankees? Really, White Sox? REALLY?
Bah.
Salty. Yes. Salty.
Strike three.
Damn.
—–
This game is stressful. I know what will make us ALL feel better:
You’re welcome.
—-
The 9th. An out.
Papelbon.
Second out.
Crowd on its feet. Wish we were there.
Strike out.
—-
Score. PLEASE.
Hi, Darnell McDonald.
FAIL, Darnell McDonald. Go. Sit. Down.
Oh, Marco.
Marco Scutaro.
DAMNIT, SCUT.
Crap.
One out left.
ONE OUT.
ONE OUT or extra innings. And I can’t stay awake, people.
Jacoby, if you CARE about me at all…
OHMYGOD. You… you love me… you… you really love me…
HOME RUN.
OHMYGOD.
I love you too, Jacoby. I love you too.
4-3.
~L
“Just want to try to drive the ball.”
You did, Jacoby. You did.
I love Paps’ victory face. I love it.
“We’re going to compete until the last out,” Jacoby said.
An until-I-go-to-sleep Live Blogging experiment. Is it really Monday?
Just got off work. Turn on browser just in time to see Scutaro kamakazi catch that. Sweetness. Like the ice cream I am going to indulge in. A treat after a long day. Is it really almost 10 p.m.? 9:58? I need a weekend already. Is it really only Monday?
So. The big news of the day. Of the week. Of the month. Of our LIFETIME. He’s BACK.
That’s right. The Lesternator. And this time, he’s going for blood. Now in High Definition. Prepare to be:
LESTERNATED.
Okay. So. Jon Lester. 0-0. Top of the second. Wait. Why do they have two on base? Why do they have two on base, Jon? 2 outs.
Okay. I get it. You were waiting for me. You didn’t want to start being a badass until I got here. Okay. Well, I’m here now, Jonny. You can stop scaring the good people of Boston. Thanks.
And an out.
Now that my new internet is working, I certainly am blogging a lot. You know what? Today brought my 900th comment. That was kind of neat. For comment 1,000 I should do something. I will. Um. Draw you a picture.
—
A walk to first by Ortiz and more annoying prattle by Jerry Remy. I am not going to be able to handle this whole game, am I?
—-
I really like Crawford. I really do. I like base stealers. He’s fun to watch. He breaks up the monotony of long games. And Reddick… a double as Crawford scores! 1-0. Nice.
Yes, Crawford. We will be friends. I will make you a friendship bracelet.
—-
May 19, 2008. Lester’s no hitter against the Royals. I remember that. That was the day I bought my car, Sweet Caroline. We watched the game at a Ham’s Restaurant near the car dealership. The food was terrible and the potatoes were cold. But Jonny, you were red hot.
—-
Now they’re talking about whether you can wear Royals gear at Fenway and not get mauled. I read a blog the other day saying that Sox fans throw nachos at people wearing other jerseys. Anyone ever experience this?
I bet if someone threw nachos at you, you did something to deserve it. Unless you were wearing a Joba jersey. That in itself is deserving of a major cheesing. You don’t have to do anything.
And now they are showing clips of Jonathan Papelbon throwing tomatoes.
Really, guys?
I don’t know. What are you thinking about Lester? I know they’re scoreless (so far) and he’s striking three of them out- but he just doesn’t seem to have his usual Lester snap. Am I just being paranoid? Evidently, because, as a speak, a cutter strikes out another Royal. And another strike out. Well, I feel better.
—-
Bottom of the third. 0-1. Jeb, the Pirate Princess, sent me a fantastic link that you should check out right now:
The Boston Red Sox have shaken off a woeful start to the season to take pole position in the American League and a near lock on a playoff spot. Unlike other recent great Red Sox teams, this year’s Boston club is doing it almost entirely with hitting.
~The Wall Street Journal
I think the current rate paid per win is approximately $4 million, so to have four different position players giving you over $16 million each of production at this point is pretty damn good.
~Jeb
For those of you who do not know Jeb, he is a kindred spirit. Just misled. He, like me, is stranded in North Carolina. Unlike me, he is Pirates fan. But in Boone, NC, you take what you can get.
And Pedroia extends his hit-streak to 22!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Can someone explain this Muddy Chicken thing to me?
—-
Another message from Jeb:
“You’ll love/hate this. John Lackey’s total WAR is currently -1.1. I think replacement-level is an average AAA player. So if you had started the season with an average AAA pitcher in Lackey’s place, you’d be 63-36 instead of 62-37. Poor John Lackey 
“
I will not love this. Not. Not. Not. Blah.
John Lackey.
We can’t think of John Lackey today, Jeb. Jon Lester is back. And he must consume all of our brain cells. All of them, I say!
—
I do not like how we’re loading the bases up. First. Second. I do not like this one bit. One out. Okay. I’d like to see a Sox offensive pop here in a sec. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.
Salty makes a catch. Salty is looking kind of hot today. Does his hair always look like that?
Two outs.
Jonny, you’re freaking me out with the first and second. Let’s not do this again, okay? Brayan Pena. And Youk throws it to first and ends the inning. Okay. It’s 5 hits to our 2. Let’s put some snap in our step.
—-
Bottom of the fourth inning, Youkie at the plate. Do you think he gets his beard professionally trimmed each day? Because his cheeks have been looking smooth lately.
First out. Oh, the pivot turn. He looks dejected. It’s okay, baby. I’m still here. I’ll always be here.
David Ortiz. Over the shift and into right field for a base hit. 4-game hitting streak.
Carl Crawford. My new best friend. He looks like he’d be a great best friend. Oh, the happy times we could have together. Like at the zoo. And the park and stuff. I could swing. And you could push the swing. Because, if you can wield a bat like that, you can totally push a swing. We could tell secrets and swap stories and roast marshmallows and have great adventures.
I am going to make a children’s book about us.
I am going to call it “Carl Crawford and me.”
Ohhhhhhh. David Ortiz out on a steal. Papi!
—-
Alcides Escobar. What a great name. I want to date someone with your name. But not you. Because you are a Royal. And just took a walk. No me for you.
Poooooooor Mariners. Swamped by the Stanks. I was really rooting for them. And not just because it’s the Yankees. Because I know how it feels when you just can’t get a break.
This is for you.
1-0, Boston. One on first. One out. Bottom of the 5th. Picked off… Gonz fires to second! Out! Out! Out! A fun moment in the midst of kind of a boring game…Or maybe I’m just tired from my fourteen hour work day…
And… strike out to end the inning.
—-
Salty’s on base. Salty has been on FIRE. Remember when those crazy bloggers (um, um…) kept saying he should go? Remember that? I am simply shocked and… um… appalled…
Okay. So I’m eating my words.
At least I know what to flavor them with.
Scutttttt. I always liked you better than Lowrie.
Full count. You can walk there. I don’t care how you get there. Just get there if you can. That’s a song.
See?
NICE. That’s exactly how I wanted to get you there. Single. Nice.
Salty takes third. Jacoby is out. But Salty took third.
First and third with two outs. Let’s see some offense dazzle. Or fine. Just strand yourselves and end the inning. Sure. Okay. WHATEVER, RED SOX.
—-
I am concerned about post-DL Lester going 77 pitches. I am concerned. Full count.
Curt Young. Are you watching this?
80 pitches.
Through the left side. Base hit. Single.
Jon Lester. You know I love you. But 81 pitches might be enough. We need you, see. In October.
Billy Butler. 82 pitches. Billy Butler looks like a guy from our pressroom. Into the corner. And you let them score. It’s not your fault, Jon Lester. I blame YOU Curt Young. Look at you. Not making eye contact. Looking into your clipboard. I called this like a hundred words ago.
Tie game. CURT YOUNG.
—-
“I wouldn’t be surprised to see this is the last hitter for Lester,” Remy says.
I would. Curt Young NEVER listens to me.
—-
88 pitches. BALL FOUR. DID YOU SEE THAT?
Tito is heading to the mound.
Poor Lester. He looks frustrated. It’s not your fault, Lester. I love you anyway.
Curt, I will deal with you later.
—-
Do you know what I like about Lester? He’s in the dugout with death eyes right now. Mad. You can see the anger. See, John Lackey how he gives a shit? Remember all those times when you sucked it up- a LOT worse than Lester, I might add- and do that shrug walk-off thing that irritates me to no end?
—-
Albers strikes ‘em out. Nice.
—
Lester, I wish I could give you a hug. It’s going to be okay. I promise.
Ground ball up the middle. Pedroia tags. Out.
Bottom of the 6th. And I am fading fast…
Another night asleep at the keyboard. At least this time it’s baseball and not city council… ah… the life of a reporter.
—
Hi, Gonz. Could you slam one out of the park? I bet that would make Lester smile. Or just strike out. Sure. Okay. <- Sarcasm.
Hi, Youkie.
He got something in his eye. Poor dear. Okay. Now we’re ready to rumble, he says.
Yikes. That one was straight for him. He’s getting good at ducking those.
Ground. Up the middle. Out. Close. I’d like to see a replay, please. Youk made it back to that dugout in about two seconds. Yikes. Did you see that lunge? It looked painful. Youkie, stop hurting yourself! And Ortiz thrown out.
Well. That sucked.
—
1-1 game in the 7th. And I’m droopy. I may not make into the 8th. God forbid this go extra innings.
Seats are emptying out. That’s what happens when it’s this late on a Monday.
—
Pena out. Thanks to a snazzy throw by Pedroia.
This game is hurting my brain.
Full count. Close up of Tito sweat. Thanks, cameras.
Crawford makes the catch. Because he’s my best friend.
And there are two outs.
STRIKE THREE. Out. Despite a dramatic jump-away by a faker. Good job, Albers.
See, Lester? I told you there was nothing to worry about. It’s alllll going to be okay.
Oh. Right. It’s still tied…
—-
Tim Collins. Pitching at my BEST FRIEND. Hi, Carl. What is with Collins’ hair? It’s like a back mullet. It’s a new invention, clearly.
First out. It’s okay, Crawford. Let’s meet up for hopscotch later.
Hi, Josh Reddick. You are not having a good hair day either. Just saying. If I can’t tell you tehse things, Josh, who can?
In the air… Caught. Out.
This inning blows.
I could be watching “The Tudors” or “Wings” on Netflix. Or. Um. Sleeping.
Salty’s up. Bottom of the 7th. Two outs. Keep hope alive, Salty. Keep hope alive.
Speaking of hope, Daniel Bard is warming up in the pen.
Who is umping? Do you know? Because he’s obnoxious.
Grounder to third…. and out.
That inning was worse than Tim Collins’ hair.
—
Pedroia fires to first for the out. And they replayed Youk’s bag slam. I knew he was hurt! I knew it! If he’s really hurt, I’m driving to Kansas. I will!
Scut dives on his face.
Single.
Jeb’s still awake. He’s watching the Pirates, as indicated by our recent Facebook convo:
WHATEVER, JEB
Ahhhh…. Facebook.
Two outs. Billy Butler sits down.
They called a balk on Bard. A bullshit balk. I don’t understand. The announcer doesn’t seem to understand. No one seems to understand. Except the pricky umpire.
2 outs. 1-1. One on second. Just so you feel my pain. Because this is painful.
Strike two.
Come. On.
Throw to first. OUT.
Bottom of the 8th. Paaaaaiiiiinnnnnnfullllll.
—-
Marco Scutaro. Up against Aaron Crow.
And the crazy Fenway yelling commences.
Pena makes a foul catch. Blah.
Out one.
I love looking at fans’ faces when the ball flies.
Jacoby. 0 for 3 tonight. So this is his moment. Right? Right?
Papelbon is warming up in the pen.
Ellsbury! Base hit! Single! 7 game hitting streak for Jacoby.
Ohmygod there is a bug on my computer screen. Ohmygod.
Eeek. Now it is on my bed. And the lights are out and…
—-
It’s okay. I’m okay.
A double play. Which is horrible, because it pushes us into the 9th. But the real horrible thing is, there is a bug in my room. And it is dark. And I’m sure it’s on me. And I can do nothing.
It’s probably like some rare African bug that will burrow into my shoulder while I’m sleeping. Ohgod.
—-
And… Johnny Paps…
—–
—-
Catch. Out one. Out 2.
—-
I am so upset. “After hobbling around, Youkilis leaving the game.”
I am so upset.
He better be okay.
—
Strike out.
Bottom of the 9th.
Okay guys. Get serious. I am only half awake. I can’t do a 10th. So score for me, okay? And for Youkilis. Who had better not be broken.
—
Alright, Gonz. You have done NOTHING today. It is time.
We need to get the spark back. There is NO SPARK.
The K-Guys are holding the A-Gonz sign. That’s for YOU, A-Gonz. YOU.
And Gonzalez strikes out. An 0 for 4 night. Really.
—
Yamaico Navarro taking one for the Youk. With a base hit! Youkie is welling up with pride and-
OHMYGOD THE BUG. I will get you this time, bug. I see you and… OHMYGOD IT FLIES.
It’s like an ant. But with wings. It’s an ant thing. It’s like the Pegasus of ants!
OHMYGOD. It’s alive.
—
Speaking of holy terrors, David Ortiz staring down Crow.
And I could watch that if I didn’t suddenly feel ants all over me.
Paranoia. Delusion. It was just one ant thing.
Just one, after all. You’re fine.
It was like a dragon ant.
Ortiz hits it on the ground- it gets through! Navarro on third! Ortiz first! Somehow that ball got through. Looked routine. Went through second baseman. Went through shortstop. Gave us sweet, sweet hope.
Hi, best friend Carl Crawford.
—–
This is so stressful. Please. Please. Please, Crawford. Please.
That strike was crap. The announcer agrees with me. He did not swing.
Out.
On crap.
Reddick.
2 outs. High fly ball… Catch. DAMNIT.
Damnit, damnit, damnit.
Extra innings. Damnit.
That check swing call was crap. I blame the ump.
Morales. And I am asleep. Please don’t let him screw it up… Going to sleep.
—
Damnit. We all know I’m lying. Come on, Morales. Get this DONE.
Josh Reddick. I love you. There have been some great dive catches tonight, no?
That was hot. No wonder my mother wants me to marry you, Josh.
Out one. And a pop out to Pedroia means out TWO. Okay. Alex Gordon. You are going to be out three. Right, Morales?
Pedroia. First. Out.
Hah.
One to one.
Damn.
Come on, offense. Now is your chance to help me sleep. DO THIS. This is painful.
—-
This is the song in my head right now. I do not know why.
Better than Jar of Hearts, at least… And I think it expresses my feelings about this game quite eloquently. I saw Joan Osborne sing this at MerleFest a few months ago.
OHCOMEONSCORENOW.
—-
Damnit, Salty! I specifically told you to score.
One out.
—
Fly ball. Caught. Scutaro, you are a jerk. Two outs.
—
Jacoby. You have grounded out, struck out, flown out and singled and OHMYGODTHEFLYINGANTISBACK.
It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m okay…
OHNOIT’SBACKAGAIN.
—
What if there’s more than one?!?!
—–
Ground chop to first.
Are we even trying???
11th.
—
Navarro!!!! Youk would have caught that. Cabrera singled. Damnit. And there’s a dragon ant trying to eat me. But other than that, I’m fiiiiiiiine. Crawford catches. First out. Two more. And please let that be it.
Eric Hosmer. You look familiar.
Throw to first! What?! That was out. That was completely OUT.
“That really was borderline,” Remy said.
That really was out. These calls are crap tonight.
Crap.
I do not know who is umping, but I would not be surprised if it was Angel Hernandez.
Crawford makes another catch. Two outs. Because he is my best friend.
Terry comes out. Dan Wheeler to come out.
—
Hi, Dan.
Please do not mess up. Thanks.
One on first. Two outs.
And his first pitch… a ball. Of course.
I get that you guys love baseball. That’s great. But please do not love 12 innings worth of baseball. Hear me, Sox offense?
Strike. Nice. Do that.
Do that again. Foul. Okay. Whatever.
YES. Cabrera does something stupid, runs and is tagged the frick out at the base.
Thank you.
Now it is up to you, Offense. Up to you. Do it. Do it NOW.
Adrian. The shouts make me think I’m watching Rocky.
Gonz to left field… OFF THE WALL.
Thank you. Thank you for doing something, Gonz.
A single. One out. And Gonz on first. Okay. Gonz. You have to score. I’m not kidding. You have to. HAVE to.
Okay, Navarro. Don’t be a hero. Just get on a base. ANY BASE.
NO.
Strikes out. Two down.
DAMNIT.
Youk would have had that. I’m just saying. It is one in the morning. SOME of us have to work.
David Ortiz. Okay. Papi. Okay. Let’s do this. And by “let’s,” I mean you, Papi.
Closeup on Jacoby and Beckett in the dugout. Jacoby is drinking a red drink. Suddenly I am thirsty.
—-
Come on, David Ortiz.
Bounce. Kicks. Gonz scampers to second! Yes! Yes! Do that.
Now Gonz is on second.
And they’re going to walk Papi.
There are boos in Fenway, but I am okay with this.
He is on a base. That is all that matters. He is not out.
First. Second.
Crawford up. My best friend.
Come on Crawford. Buddy.
ANOTHER bad strike call.
“Crawford’s about had it… that pitch being called a strike.”
When Remy knows the umpire sucks, the umpire SUCKS.
Stressssssful.
Strike. Two and two. Okay. He looks apprehensive. Don’t be apprehensive, Crawford. Please? Breathe, baby. Breathe. Ball three.
Full fricking count.
Come on.
Please.
Come on.
afdsjkkkkkkkkklnokdnjdfkdfjkldfsjkl
That was my head hitting the keyboard. Let me demonstrate again.
afdljklkjfadjkdfaaereiorf;j
Strike.
Out.
DAMNIT.
12. DAMNIT.
I can’t do this guys. I have to sleep. Have to.
fadslkjljkdfsfljkfdljkdfjklsfdsjkls
Damnit.
I am sad. Randy Williams warming in then pen.
I am so tired. So tired. Soooooooo
—
Walk. Guy on first. Thanks, Wheeler.
I blame the umpire, actually. The umpire that HATES my new best friend, Carl Crawford.
Sacrifice. And the runner is on second. One out. Damnitdamnitdamnit.
Brayan Pena.
Damnit.
Only one out.
Damnit.
I can’t type unless something monumental happens.
—-
strike out. good. 2 outs. throw to first. out. bottom of 12. please score please.
—-
Okay. Let’s do this. And by do this. I mean score. Hi, Josh Reddick. Just get on a base. If four of you get on a base, that is all it will take.
Do it for your fallen comrade. Speaking of fallen comrades, I would like an update on my husband, please.
The announcers want this to end too.
“Put it right where you want it, Josh,” Remy said.
I would like it over the green monster. Thanks.
Reddick… base hit!!!!
“Thatta baby,” Remy keeps saying.
Single.
Three more and we’ve got a ballgame.
Salty.
one for four. single. Okay. let’s. please.
Youkie is watching. I know he is. He should be asleep. But he’s not.
I should be asleep. But I’m not.
Salty. Scutaro is after you. But let’s not need him. Let’s just use you, Salty. And your bat. In the air. Left field. Catch. FAIL.
Marco. Hi. Can you hit something? A triple would be nice.
YEESSSSSS. Ball gets away and Reddick stops at THIRD!
One out and we are at THIRD. Yes. Yessssss. Yes. Okay. Scut. Do not mess this up. Do not.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Reddick is out. He was trapped. Squeeze play. Damn it. Scutaro missed the sign. Scut missed the sign, Remy said. Damnit, Scut. DAMNIT.
If this goes to 13, so help me…
Homerun or you are NOT going back to the dugout.
Base hit. And Scutaro is OUT AT SECOND BASE.
Scutaro. Scutaro. Scutaro. SCUTARO
—
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Lauren13 inning games are the reason I am cranky at work.
19 minutes ago · Privacy: · Like ·
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Holly likes this.
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Jeb: Excuses excuses.5 minutes ago · Like -
Lauren: did you see that? angels just wept. in the sky. and that, jeb mcrary, is how rain happens.about a minute ago · Like
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Jeb: Is this on TV? I’m following online. So I see that Boston’s odds just went down. http://www.fangraphs.com/livewins.aspx?date=2011-07-25&team=Red+Sox&dh=0&season=2011
Red Sox win probability for Monday, July 25, 2011a few seconds ago · Like · -
Lauren: it is on mlb.tv. and scutaro… i can’t say it. i don’t want to talk about this. this game is dead to me. dead.2 seconds ago · Like
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Seriously. I am making no sense. I need to go to sleep. Tell me who won?
-
The Boston Red Sox like beer. Um… Yeah?
CLICK HERE. I can’t figure how to imbed it- but you’ll be glad you did.
Do what I did if country music makes you cringe. Fast forward to the 2 minute mark.
Alerted to this Sox-errific video by a blog questioning whether this is the image Red Sox want to portray. I think it’s clearly made in fun.
And baseball without beer? Seriously, that’s like dill pickles that aren’t kosher.
An inner tube without a river. Ahhhhh, a river. That’s how I plan to spend my weekend.
You know. If this nasty, icky only-when-I’m-not-working rain would dissipate.
But seriously. Baseball. Beer. They go together like peanut butter and jelly. Cagney and Lacy. Kevin Youkilis and yours truly. Beer is part of that baseball ritual. Pop open a cold one, get semi-comatose on the couch, and wait for the bad calls to get your riled up.
So, as we await another Fenway stomping, I ask you..
What’s your baseball must have?
My mother said a remote control. Please be more interesting than that.
~L
PS- Another crazy list on a blog today- the 20 Biggest Douchebags? I get (but wholeheartedly disagree) why a not-fan might put Beckett and Paps on the list. They can be scary. I’m sure Josh Beckett can make a not-fan dribble with tears, what with his unapologetic bad-assery. Paps as number one? Kind of a hilarious choice. Clearly we in the not-fan ranks are shaking in our high tops over the Paps face.
But guess who else ranks? David Ortiz. What is the world coming to, people? Clearly we need more outreach education. Because the ignorant masses are creeping.
‘I’ve decided you should marry Reddick.’
It is 11:15 p.m. and I am condemning this whole damn operation! Gahk. I can summarize this whole long, craptastic post in one sentence. “OH MY FRICKING GOD.” <- that is the sentence. It expresses extreme displeasure at this horrible, horrible, crapfest of a game. I think this video clip is an appropriate use of your time. But it does contain the word “shit,” which, lately, has replaced the “f” word as my go-to for toe stubbing. Airport bottles are a great invention. They have alcohol AND they are adorable. So, if you don’t want to read the lengthy, lengthy live blogging crap that is my crazy blog rant of the day, know this and know it well: Wheeler, I will have my revenge. In this life or the next. That is from Braveheart. Kind of Or Gladiator. Or some other movie with an Australian playing a scottish or greek person… How much vavoom do you think Mel Gibson used in Braveheart? Mel Gibson was the Kirk Douglas of our time. You know. Until the anti-Semitic crazy. Mel Gibson. Not Kirk Douglas. Kirk Douglas isn’t anti anything except you know, Stalin and stuff.
—–
So, I’m at work in a horrible-no-good-much-worse-than-that-children’s-book bad day, (ohmygod is it 9:47? Is that PM?!) I don’t even know the score (that’s how horrible it is. Because you know I check that obsessively), and my mother just sent me a text message.
“I’ve decided you should marry Reddick instead of Youkilis.”
I’m sorry. It says: “Ive decided u should marry riddick stead of youk.”
So, there.
Apparently, Reddick’s kicking ass?
—-
9:50 You know what just made my day better? Seeing that it’s 4-4 (better than nothing. Thanks… Reddick?) and getting comments about how other people almost drowned on their beverages after seeing JohnnyDamonville online. Thanks guys. Really. Oh, and FDA‘s silly misinterpretation of the awesomeness of Youkilis. Isn’t it scary how I don’t actually know any of you and yet you have the ability to collectively make me smile? Because real people today only have the collective ability to make me throw shoes. Speaking of which, before I drive home, I really need to find my shoes.
—-
10:26. At home. Finally. Talked to my mother on the way home.
“I could really see Reddick as a son-in-law,” she said. “He hit a double and a triple. I bet he has nice manners.”
Trying to talk to my mom about genuine crap at work. She keeps intercepting with strike calls. So, she’s watching the game and not listening. I think this is what they call role reversal. It is 5-4. That’s nice. In NOT NICE WORLD. This is what happens when I leave my mother in charge.
—-
I’m glad I had the good sense to hit the liquor store during a work break today.
—-
Mike Adams, you have a boring name.
—
Adrian!!!!!!! Stop striking out in front of company!
—-
It is 10:34. End of the 8th. Jesus Guzman? There are a lot of baseball players named Jesus.
—
Johnny Paps! I’m so happy to see you. Side note: Beckett was sick too, hmm? Think it’s the same plague that zapped Salty and Youk? Damn, dirty viruses…
—
So, sidelined by a link, this guy says Reddick could become a regular. He also says with Lowrie injured (why is everyone so surprised?!) we may be looking at Jose Reyes… This guy says lots of things. Including a fun snippet about Youkilis when asked why Youk rubs dirt on his uniform:
“He’s a Dirt Dog, plain and simple.
In all seriousness, I have never even noticed that…
If there is one guy that doesn’t need to worry about finishing the game without some dirt on his uniform, it is Youkilis. So if he does what you are accusing him of doing, you know he’s not just doing it for show. Youkilis is a pretty ritualistic guy in terms of his preparation. There could be some superstition behind it.
I’ll see if I can catch him in the act and get back to you.”
I haven’t noticed that. Have you?
—
10:43. Or, as we like to call it on the couch, shot-thirty. Everyone’s favorite Kevin Youkilis due up. Bottom of the 9th. LAST CHANCE FOR A RALLY.
Please, guys? I need this. Like, really-really.
—
Heath Bell. Does that sound like a real name to you? Are you sure you don’t write romance novels or have an evil twin in a soap opera?
A single for Youkie-pie! That’s right, baby. Rally. Rally like you’ve never rallied before. Um. Or like you did yesterday in the 7th. That would be good too.
—
10:50. Ortiz. Okay. Did Ortiz really steal a base earlier? That’s smashtastic.
Two strikes. Okay. I see what you’re doing. You’re being coy, aren’t you, big boy? Coy and boy rhyme.
I wish I was at Fenway. I bet the seat thumping has commenced.
DAMNIT, PAPI!
A double play.
It’s okay, Youkie. YOU tried.
—
ohno! Slumpy McSlumperson, aka: JD Drew. To the rescue? RESCUE WOULD BE NICE.
The adventures of Slumpy. What a children’s book you would make.
Crap. We just lost to the fricking Padres.
It’s the shithawks again. I’m telling you. They haven’t left me alone all day…
WARNING: Video Clip contains foul and hilarious language.
—
I’m not the only one who had supervisor meetings today. Lester and Tito had a heart-to-heart. Wants to keep him “fresh” for September. Does this mean pulling him (and not Wake?!)?
Oh yes, let’s follow a Yankee director. Next thing you know we’ll be shaving heads and going after your ice cream.
But yeah… okay… whatever you say, Tito.
Kevin and I have another thing in common. A bad ankle. I twisted mine. AGAIN. Today. I wish I could give you a dramatic story about saving a puppy or at least stepping in a hole. But I was walking across a tile floor (and not a real tile floor, a work tile floor) and fell. On my face.
—
Another interesting read today is this little ditty about all that realignment jazz. The blog poses the question- could a realignment impact the BoSox-Stanks rivalry?
My easy answer? Not while Johnny Damon is alive.
I still have no opinion. Or, in the words of a town council stereotype: “I am holding off on forming an opinion until I review the facts presented to me and have an opportunity to have my questions answered.” What are your questions? “I still need to review the facts to get the questions.” Facts on what specifically? “Facts on the opinions that I have.”
—-
Need a pick-me-up post Padres? I enjoyed statistics on inter-league play gathered by… *gasp* a Stankee in this blog.
“Not only does Boston kill the National League, they also play stellar baseball in National League ballparks — something the Yankees haven’t always been able to say.”
I can’t wait for another Josh Beckett at-bat.
You know, for the first time I’ll really miss Dice-K. How fun is it to watch him bat? Really! Remember that little innocent smirk before he knocks it out of the park? Love him. Miss him. Wish him well.
—-
Thanks again for your comments. They lifted my spirits today more than you know. And more than those USELESS Red Sox.
Okay, you’re not useless. But you are vertebrate clenching!!!!
I still love you, Kevin Youkilis. No matter what my mother says.
~L
PS- Since I didn’t watch the bulk of the game, I am reserving judgment as to whose fault this was. But I’m hearing some BAAAAAAAD things about you, Aceves.
Wait. Wait a minute…
Some BAAAAAAD things. YOU WALKED HOW MANY PEOPLE?
DAMN IT, ACEVES! I am never eating fettuccine alfredo again.
The WORST? Think about that bar, Aceves. Bobby Jenks. John Lackey. DENNYS REYES. And a blogger, a PROFESSIONAL blogger singled your inning out. How does that feel?
WHEELER YOU DID WHAT?!!!!
I can’t even look at your name in print. I can’t even do it.
You just wait until I’m calm enough to blog about you, Wheeler. YOU. JUST. WAIT. You’re lucky it’s shot-thirty again!
